


Kitty Wings: Four Legs in the Morning

by RainofLittleFishes



Series: The Town Dump: A Social Occasion for Crossovers & Fusions [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Homestuck
Genre: Activism BFFs, Bureaucracy, Crossover, Cute Kids, Humanstuck, Ministry of Magic, Petstuck, Sphinx!Karkat, Teh Mysterious Wizarding Trouser Chicken, Wizard!Kankri trolls because he can, sphinx
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-03-04 11:14:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3065786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainofLittleFishes/pseuds/RainofLittleFishes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This isn't the first time Hermione Granger has participated in smuggling a magical animal to safety. Kankri Vantas isn't her first co-conspirator. One tries not to make a habit of it, but one does what one needs must. </p><p>(Kankri pontificates and cat-sits for the cause. Karkat is small, cute, and perpetually prickly. Ronald Weasley, though absent, serves as a source of humour. Cronus Ampora has precisely one talent outside the bedroom. The Courting Habits of Slytherins are relayed by a third party who might not be an entirely reliable source. Magic and common sense continue to tend to be inversely proportionate… so, business as usual.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It is a measure of your regard for one Hermione Granger that when you hear the fast click of her sensible court shoes followed by the swing and snap of her entering your shared office and closing the door, you are already standing up, hand over your holster.

Hermione is always efficient, but she seldom moves so quickly, at least not without reason, and if there is trouble, you will need to be prepared. Your co-worker and officemate is dressed much as she always is, in a sensible but flattering robe, hair up. She’s carrying her very large purse, a muggleborn affection for those who could simple Expand such spaces, but one few would dare criticize to her face due to both her formidable intellect and skills. She’s also swinging her wand out and back in the tight curls and final fierce cut of a directional silence spell. The purse is moving.

“Kankri, _stall_ _them_.” This is a low hiss even on this side of the silence spell. She crosses the room to sit behind her desk. The purse is set carefully on the floor.

It is a measure of your esteem for Hermione that you don’t question this request, you just snatch a bound copy of Ministry Regulations off your shelf, grab a pen (you still find quills hopelessly _quaint_ ) and take yourself out into the hall with a preoccupied air. Anyone who really knows you knows that _not_ questioning an order or request is the highest measure of your esteem. You look up as if surprised to have company as you shut the door. You smile as you see your prey, all members of Confiscations, and not known to be the brightest or most ethical members of the Ministry.

“Ah, Cubbins, Roberts, Merlow, how _delightful_ to see you!”

Cubbins appears surprised, Roberts confused. Merlow, the only one with whom you’ve previously… conversed… is already backing up. You’ve only met Cubbins once and you’ve never been formally introduced to Roberts, who is probably wondering if he knows you. Fortunately, your memory for faces and names is every bit as accurate as your ability to memorize text. You smile, eyes and teeth, and a certain mental predatory intention, but don’t overdo it.

“I was just seeking a second opinion on Article 45, section two. Punctuation can be so _ambiguous_ , and I’m not entirely sure I’ve determined the true _intent_ of this centrally relevant semicolon. Of course intent and effect must be kept separate while co-informing one another, but perhaps you might assist as _native_ English speakers.”

Merlow backs down the corridor as you advance just a bit and makes some excuses before he scurries off to Confiscations. You are quite certain that if he were an animagus it would be something small and furry, timid, a hamster perhaps.

You yourself have no talent for transformations in any form, but you do tend to win the occasional pool when one of the Aurors goes through the course and, if successful, registers their resultant form. Sight is your best magical talent, though hardly the talent of which you are most proud. Rational thinking is far more rare in the Wizarding world. You smile just a bit more, but remind yourself not to get cocky. You may have done some work on Merlow previously to instill a certain level of respect for your preparedness and he’s avoided confrontation since. That doesn’t mean you’ve won. Not yet anyway.

“Ah, it appears that Merlow is taking care of your office work, Roberts, Cubbins, so _surely_ you have time to assist.” You flip the book open to the relevant subsection, Hermione and you really _had_ been debating over it just yesterday, and you pontificate a bit on its relevance to the recognition and categorization of magical beings versus magical beasts, and pull in a few other subsections and quote a half dozen other sources regarding forms of intelligence, historical incidences of discrimination for economic gain, a listing of relevant goblin uprisings and each of the causes. You’re warming to the topic, though Cubbins appears to be fading fast and Roberts still seems confused but also slightly alarmed, like a sloth that that has discovered itself to possibly be on fire but hasn’t yet cogitated on a suitable reaction.

You pause at the appropriate places and neither has much helpful to say on the matter. You hit your stride and you’re gesticulating and Roberts is nodding along, clearly completely lost, and Cubbins is clutching the wall behind him like he’s having a traumatic flashback to his schooling. You pause, not quite theatrically confused, it really is necessary to _underact_ to really sell it, and ask Cubbins if he’s _quite all right_. He nods and mentions something about just needing a cuppa.

You smile, once again delighted, positively _delighted,_ and encouragingly inform him that you yourself could do with something to wet your throat and would they like to step inside for tea? You have been meaning to sample a rather spicy chai you procured recently from overseas, it would be most kind of them to offer their opinions on that as well…

Both make excuses and hustle off. You watch them go with an abstracted air of puzzlement and go back into your office when the hallway is entirely clear. You lock the door behind you by hand, followed by a firm motion of your wand.

You’re no wandwork virtuoso but you’re solid in most of the basics, except transformation, of course. You tend to be better at discerning what _is_ and _possibilities_ than convincing things they really want to be other than they are. Some would find this a hopeless handicap but you have as yet never had a need to defend yourself in a duel in this post-Voldemort era. You find the usual wizarding resistance to logic a far greater handicap.

Hermione is sitting behind her desk, not quite as composed as she normally is, but not far off. Most wouldn’t notice anyhow. Her purse is shut and quite still. Her wand has doubtless long since been sheathed.

“I’m afraid they all had somewhere to be, Ms. Granger, I can’t imagine what it is about the English and their sudden need for tea. One would think it an emergency, but they didn’t want to stop in for a spot.” You frown for her benefit. She laughs.

“Thank you, Kankri.” She exhales a sigh of relief and sits back in her chair, and waves you closer. You find yourself pulling up your trouser legs at the knee to kneel next to her, in front of the cabinet under her desk. She leans in and pulls it back open. As you suspected, the files now slide sideways and the space inside has been Expanded to stash whatever it is that she was smuggling. She pulls at a fluffy blanket that in no way existed prior to ten minutes ago, it still has the Ministry letterhead on the top, quite unlike Hermione, and the transfigured blanket slides free with an inertia indicative of weight inside.

She gets a hand under it, but her angle’s off to get much leverage, so you put a hand under to support it, whatever it is. If it was dangerous, she would have warned you. The blanket clears the edge and the weight falls into you, and you quickly reach your other hand under, because whatever it is must weigh at least two stone. She flicks the top layer free and there’s a muddle of sleek black and gray and red your arms.

A juvenile sphinx. Male, a flopping hind leg assures you. Chemically or magically impaired, the roll of his head and glazed gaze divulge. You lift your arms to cradle his body and support his head more securely, resettle his hind legs, study him. You’ve seen plenty of pictures and once met an adult sphinx. She was regal, all tawny colours and sharp inviting smile as she issued invitations for formal riddling at one of your great-grandmother’s teas. And yet even in pictures, you’ve never seen a sphinx so _small_. His paws are outsized in comparison, densely boned, lion body sleek black and gray, lightest at the belly, soft little curls of black hair from head to neck and along the back of his legs, wings red and black, tiny face toddler-sized.

You should be asking her where he came from, you’ve never heard of a sphinx in these colours, and wizards getting inventive over breeding usually ends badly. Sphinxes are officially categorized as magical beasts. They are also one of several races of magical beings on the combined Magical Beings, Beasts and Has-Beens Department agenda to be re-categorized from beast to being. It has been a regrettably, though not surprisingly, slow process. Perhaps you should inquire after his origin, if his family might be searching for him, but at the moment you’re more concerned with his altered state. You ask after its cause.

“What ever do you mean?” She frowns, but you can both clearly see that he’s not so much resting as staring into the invisible Realms, with occasional twitches like he’s suddenly been reconnected with his limbs.

“He was quite active when Merlow was dangling him, gave him a nasty scratch. No one got a spell in, and there’s nothing that should have done that in my desk or purse.” You change the angle of your arms to take his weight more easily and he slides down into your lap as you sit back. Herminone flips through her oversized carryall. Notebook, book, pen, everlasting quill, wallet, shielded cell phone, small notebook, knitted cat toy.

“Oh! This was for Crookshanks.” She looks puzzled. “I had forgotten. I suppose that answers any suppositions as to if sphinxes are susceptible to catnip.”

“Very. I think you had better shape up or you’ll be considered a pedo drug dealer, Ms. Granger.”

She laughs, as you intended, and the sphinx waves a forepaw in the air like he’s trying to reach you but has no concept of distance or depth perception. He’s squinting, one eye shut, face wrinkled in concentration and you try not to laugh at how he resembles Mad Eye Moody. Only young, tiny, fuzzy, and very cute. You scratch behind his tufted cat ears, each set with two silver rings that chime when they flick. He wiggles until you’re scratching under his collar.

The collar, hidden in his curly but not yet abundant mane, is dark green leather with a silver snake-shaped clasp and a heavy bell. The tag reads “Kitten”. As little as snakes bother you on a personal level, as oddly festive as the combination of black, red, and green is, you are scarcely blind enough to be ignorant of the connotations in Magical Britain. This does not bode well.

You flip the tag over and it lists immunizations and dates, but no home address. You can’t sense much magic on the collar or tag, just durability, and, it makes you think a _bit_ more charitably of whomever had him previously, a complicated charm to be sure that the collar released should he be entangled and have difficulty breathing.

The sphinx himself seems to have a tight core of Potential much like a young wizard or witch still in their accidental magic years, much like many of your little cousins. The rings have a subtle but powerful Working on them. _Youth_ , your Sight supplies. You tend to be better at such things then outright magic working. You raise a brow at Hermione and relay as much.

“Confiscations ran a raid on Pansy Parkinson’s apartment. The charges were trumped up, and I have no doubt that they will need to return everything, but with no papers they can argue that he’s a dangerous experimental cross of some sort and put him down before she can level a stay or counter charges. She’d likely win, but too late. I caught Roberts purposing to sell him, and Merlow arguing for target practice, the cretins. Cubbins looked like he thought it a terrible imposition to have to form an opinion on the matter and proposed they spin wands for it. Sphinxes are intelligent, and he can’t _even riddle yet_ , Kankri, and it’s just so **_unjust_**.”

An explanation without further prodding. Good partner. Best officemate. The two of you are totally in cahoots. No wonder Ronald Weasley hates your guts.

He actually has nothing to fear, your interest in Hermione is, if not entirely business, platonic and entirely related to the grandeur of her _ethics and_ _mind_ , but you find the game amusing, so you haven’t bothered to clear the air. It may yet come back to bite you, but in the meanwhile, you have your job, and your partner, and your cause. Some might think your cause is advocating for magical beasts. Peoples if they’re of the more liberal mindset and according to your department name. But your overall concern is much more broadly sweeping. You cannot abide injustice. Or deliberate stupidity or cruelty. And there is a great deal of all three in the wizarding world.

It’s three in the afternoon on a Friday, so the two of you only work for another three hours before you remind your officemate, technically your superior, that it really is necessary for her to go home. She agrees, on the condition that you go, and you agree, because you’ve never yet won an argument over the fact that at least no one is waiting at home for you.

The two of you finished off the latest contracts for the continued, if strained, relations between the Wizarding world and the Goblin Nation and Gringotts as of last week and the time since has been spent tidying up a few other items and waiting for a counter-offer. Government-subsidized wolfsbane potion has been made available via St. Mungo’s as of eight moons ago and the programme appears to be going well. You have some subtle easy-to-swallow PR campaigns in the works now that the programme’s on its feet. The biggest delay was for Hermione to be sure that the potion makers, all apprentices at St. Mungo’s, were creating a safe and effective potion. Once the Goblin contracts are set the two of you will focus on pushing a fledgling bill of rights for the weres. Wizards and witches surveyed expressed opinions regarding weres including, “Save the Children!”, “Not In My Backyard”, and “They ought to get jobs and stop living on the dole”. None of these are helpful to people who need a place to live and have a condition that makes it hard to hold a job. Still, you will persist. It is what you do.

You deposit the sphinx back in her generously-sized purse, Vanish any telltale hairs with your rather well practiced post-cat precautions, Porrim has _three_ and they all show _terribly_ on wool trousers of _any_ colour, you are uncertain as to how, it is clearly cat-magic. You already miss the heavy warmth that’s been sitting on your lap for the past three hours.

There’s a spot of drool on your trousers and a prickle down to your toes where the nerves are asleep. You thump a fist on it and concentrate on how to Vanish the spit spot without accidently vanishing your trousers or your blood or something worse. You could just dry it, but the patch would show. You are intimately aware of your limits. Hermione takes pity on you and waves her own precise wandwork for your benefit. A silence charm goes back on the purse and she demonstrates a hardening charm you’ve never seen to keep the sides from moving if he moves around. You catch one last glimpse of wide red eyes before she gently pushes him down and zips the purse shut.

You figure that it was nice to get up close to one of the beneficiaries of your work, however less than legal the means, but that that’s that.


	2. Chapter 2

On Monday the sphinx is back.

The door is locked. The Silence is back on it. Hermione is pacing and the sphinx is stalking her as she turns. When she stops pacing, he tags her robe hem with a paw and dashes across the room to jump into your lap. Oof. He may weigh more than he did Friday. He glares up at you until you pet him. He settles and starts to groom his forepaws, still silent, now sans earrings, collar or bell. Hermione keeps pacing.

“I can’t keep him Kankri. He hates Ron! He ate Ron’s dinner and piddled on his chair and tried to chase him out of the bed and when we locked him out of the bedroom he shredded Ron’s newest Chudley Cannons poster beyond even _Reparo_. Nothing of mine, mind you, but everything that was exclusively Ron’s outside the bedroom was, was _defiled_. Feces in shoes. His best cloak, the only one that wasn’t a uniform or orange, _shredded_. All the books in the main room separated, and all of Ron’s pulled out, chewed and stuffed in the sink, with the water running. Even his Auror notebooks. Even _The Monster Book of Monsters_. **_Books_** , Kankri, can you imagine? He’s perfectly behaved when it’s just me, but it’s absolutely absurd when Ron’s around.” She hasn’t said Crookshanks registered any objection, but you suppose any new residents in her domicile would have to pass with both her cat and boyfriend.

“Perhaps he misunderstood and thought he was protecting you from Ron. And anyone so young would need a period of adjustment over such a change in living arrangements.” Kitten sits up and stares at you, his human shaped face clearly demonstrating the emotional state known as entirely smug. He grins at you and his tiny white teeth are sharp and also adorable. He looks just like one of your toddler cousins.

“Yes, but I _still can’t keep him_.”

“How is Ms. Parkinson’s suit coming?”

“That’s the other part. She filed for all the confiscated items, down to the forks Roberts pocketed and failed to report and the rings in Kitten’s ears. Everything but Kitten and the collar. I even dropped hints. She doesn’t want him back and I can’t think of anyone to take him.”

Kitten droops at this and as his chin smacks into your chest you cradle the back of his head and rub behind an ear. He slumps entirely and you wonder how much he understands. He hasn’t spoken, but you have no idea how old he is or how much the earrings might have delayed his development. Poor mite.

Hermione starts pacing again.

“Everyone in Ron’s family is right out or else busy, Hagrid is away, and if we surrender him to Confiscations they’ll kill him. If we keep him here officially, there will be questions, and we could deal with it, but with both evidence and chain-of-custody as it is, it likely would be detrimental in the long-term. The appearance of impropriety can be as damaging as fact, and I really should have filed on Friday as soon as I seized him. I’ve asked Charlie if he has any connections with any other sphinxes, but they’re secretive, and with this treatment as, as _animals,_ as **_property_** , we can hardly be surprised. Can you take him? Just until we figure something out?”

You suspect that that will be rather a long time. You suspect that you will regret this. You still say yes.

You rub Kitten under his toddler chin and he purrs at you. Perhaps you’re projecting, but he appears well enough satisfied with this development. You have never fantasized about shitting in Ronald Weasley’s shoes, but you would put down money that he turned that hilarious red colour that matches his hair. It is your probably biased opinion that Mr. Weasley rather desperately needs to either learn to laugh at himself or learn to respect his prospective life partner’s vocation, as opposed to finding humour in Hermione’s career choice. It’s not all his fault, he _is_ a product of the prevalent opinions held by the Magical World, and not even the most absurd and racist of them, but he’s an adult and should at some point learn to _think_ for himself.

It’s not like you wouldn’t do this for Hermione’s peace of mind, even if Kitten _was_ a terrible hell beast.

Early on in your association you had exchanged confidences with Ms. Granger. You know all about SPEW, and something about Hogwarts, including the infamous, 'or worse, _expelled_ ” incident, among other things. You know about the War from her perspective as both a participant and student of magical and non-magical history, how adults chased children like prey and tortured people because they could. You know all the excuses used in the second world war and how the insular magical community is largely unaware of their tragic attempted imitation of it, unaware of how small they are in comparison.

She knows all about your numerous attempts at unpopular or unwise activism throughout the awkward throes of your adolescence, that embarrassing blighted flower of the anger and frustration that dwells in you at injustice.

She knows about your unfortunate private and public schooling years in Mumbai and Austin and Cardiff, the disastrous single year at Beauxbatons that made you leave the magical world almost entirely. She knows that you did all the work, spent all the years, to become a solicitor in the non-magical world, and then came back to start almost all over when you charged in to argue a case on behalf of a friend-of-a-friend, a young squib woman with Veela heritage who charged three wizards with attempted rape and was crucified in public opinion and _The Prophet_ for her courage.

Hermione may dress conservatively in acknowledgement that appearance is a form of dominance dynamics, but she would no more stand for the argument “she was asking for it, dressed as she was” than any reasoning being would. She will not stand by to watch a bully go unchallenged.

She’s met most of your family, even the ones that can’t pass without a glamour. You’ve met her parents, the Weasleys, Mr. Potter, and Crookshanks. The two of you have made a pact to make this part of the Wizarding world a better place through judicial, through _judicious_ activism. It would be impossible to articulate how encouraging it has been, it _is_ , to know that someone else shares your vision.

You trust Hermione and, knowing what she’s been through, you intend to be sure she knows it, and knows she can trust you.

And, well, it’s a less than logical sort of reasoning, but Kitten's very warm and cute and you rather hope he might yet learn to talk.

“There’s still time to file, Hermione, we just write it up as relocating him to the appropriate department and needing time to evaluate him. That’s rather open-ended in terms of arguable timeframes. And if three blokes from Confiscations, widely known to be less than discerning, argue about it, they’re already under the impending pressure of Ms. Parkinson’s charges against them. There’s no need for panic. We’re just continually re-evaluating and re-establishing the borders of our department and our ability to offer assistance to the continued efficiency of other departments. Yes?”

“Oh. Yes, well, that should work.”

Hermione has been through a great deal and is in many ways capable of things that you are not. You, however, have the benefit of some years in the judicial system and you will yet train her with all the tricks that come from arguing for a living. One such trick is to never let them see you bleed. Another is that sometimes the best defense is an offense.


	3. Chapter 3

You get your new housemate home to your three room apartment in your newly Expanded briefcase, a rather handsome article made of humanely hunted alligator leather tanned in an ecologically responsible manner. You would not have purchased such an extravagance knowing how many other worthwhile uses there are for the money it must have cost, but it was a gift from Porrim, your mother, and great-grandmother and so there was no way to refuse. The leather is treated to wear only gently. The broad sides are magically resistant and bulletproof, a convenience that has been used more than once. Your family really does know you well.

You live in a non-magical area for several reasons, those including both convenience for your family, who are all mixed regarding how much they can _do_ magic and how much they _are_ magic, and the rather fervent worry you somehow can’t shake that _magic has a deleterious effect on logic_. (Occam’s Razor: It explains _everything_.)

You open the briefcase in the main room, a combined kitchen and sitting room with your laptop in the corner, and let Kitten out. You take your shoes off. You pull out the transfigured tray Hermione worked for you, she really is both smart and practical, so rare, and push it under the sink in the loo. Kitten follows you and watches. You fill the tray with the cat litter she gave you, make a mental note to buy more and appropriate groceries, and leave for the kitchen sink, where you fill a bowl, set it in the corner and examine the fridge for dinner prospects for the both of you.

You hear a flush from the loo and Kitten pads in, sits down on your left foot as if to pin you in place, looks you in the eyes, and pronounces, “Ronald Weasley is a cabbage-brained berk.”

You are not _entirely_ surprised at this, but you try not to react to how adorable he is. You know that from your own terrible adolescence that having a bad mood be laughed off is worse than being ignored. So you take the opening to start a dialogue. Just two young bachelors discussing life while determining dinner. _Hmm. Maybe takeout?_

“Mr. Weasley is quite intelligent.”

“Yes. And that’s why he’s an idiot. I don’t see what she sees in him.”

“That is not for us to determine, but Ms. Granger. Perhaps she likes the challenge of a different world view. Perhaps she likes the familiarity of someone with whom she has been through a great deal.”

“That’s still a sucky reason to cohabit.” You mentally readjust your estimation of his mental age upwards.

“I do believe that they are evaluating one another for future prospects as life mates.”

“Oh. Well I suppose.” He shrugs and licks his shoulder.

“Why does that suddenly make sense?” You’re not sure if you’re going to like this answer, but you can’t fail to ask.

“Well, she doesn’t need to _like_ a life mate. She just needs someone with a big chicken to give her big Os and squalling brats.”

You choke and cough before he can turn back from his shoulder to notice how this has affected you.

“Pardon? I’m afraid I don’t follow.” _Be polite, Kankri, he’s only a child and no one likes to be laughed at._

“I know _all_ about arranging marriages. Pansy talks incessantly about Malfoy. He’s a pompous git, but he’s got a big cock and knows how to give her Os.”

“That’s rather more than I needed to know, but thank you for your honesty.”

“You asked! Pansy bitches about him all the time, but she’s still going to marry him because he’s got proven genetics. She wants magicy babies so she needs his big chicken. It sounds terribly inconvenient. Why would he keep a chicken in his trousers? Is this something all humans do? Or just wizards? Wizards don’t seem very practical. And if chickens make wizard babies, why don’t you have any wings? Do you have to keep the chicken afterwards?” _This is priceless._ _Don’t die of laughter Kankri, or you’ll never be able to relay this to Porrim._

He squints and fluffs his own black shafted red wings up at you and you feel another moment of discombobulation as you realize how strangely _naked_ you must look to him. No visible fur but on your head and face, no claws, no tail, no _wings_. You wonder if he’ll be able to fly when he’s grown. No wonder the both of you have no idea what’s normal for the other.

“Ah, there are no chickens directly involved in making magical human babies, just wizards and witches, and sometimes just non-magic humans.” Technically, and your family is not alone in this, sometimes some non-human magical beings. Porrim got Auntie Hestia’s lamia teeth. You yourself wear contacts to mute the red in your eyes to a less remarkable brown. Kitten frowns at you and you bite your tongue before you can assure him that you’ll explain when he’s older. Distraction. You need a distraction.

“Why did you dislike Mr. Weasley?”

“He was home before she was and still waited for her to get home and cook. He has two opposable thumbs and a wand, that’s like an embarrassment of options, and he can’t get _any_ of them out of his own arse even to feed himself?”

“How valiant of you to stand up for gender egalitarianism, Kitten.”

“Gender what? And my name is Krrrrkth.”

“Karkat?”

“More _expectorating_ , less _vowels_.” This exasperated relation sounds almost exactly like Porrim the last time Cronus visited. You dodge repeating it back to him because you’re sure that getting it right could take a while and if there’s anyone redirecting the conversation in this apartment, it should be the responsible adult and not the minor. You remember your own power struggles with your father all too well. It doesn’t even hurt anymore to admit to yourself that he was right. You really were a complete twerp as a teenager. You forge on.

“Gender egalitarianism is the belief and practice that one should treat people equally and fairly regardless of their assigned or self-determined gender, their maleness or femaleness, or however they identify. Of course, it ties into a great deal of other issues of justice, identity, and society, and some would define it more narrowly.”

“Also stupid. Why would it make a difference in the first place?”

“Touché.”

“So stupid you couldn’t even parry in your own language?”

“French seemed more prepared for the task, but English is not my first language.”

He cocks his head at you. “Okay. I’m not sure English is supposed to be my first language, but I don’t remember anything else.”

“Do you know where you came from?” He gives you a look of disgust, like, _hey, if I knew that I would have said it._

“Sphinxes are monotremes, you placental primate. It’s not like I could pick my genetic donors out of a lineup having been sold or stolen or fallen off the back of a lorry or whatever in the egg. Malfoy gifted me to Pansy as a pre-marital gift. Probably evaluating if she killed me on accident or on purpose. Human babies are fragile, right? It was a trial run.”

You don’t think he really means the last part. He calls Ms. Parkinson by her first name, and Mr. Malfoy by his last, there was clearly some preference there. Then again, for whatever reason, she didn’t want him back. You really do wonder how old he is, or what the equivalent would be in a human child's development. He's tiny, but very, very verbose. Delightfully so, if crude.

“Did you really have to relieve yourself in Mr. Weasley’s shoes? It doesn’t really help the case for arguing for sphinx intelligence.”

“He kicked me off the couch and waited until Granger was in the kitchen to tell me that Muggles had a ‘great new pet control invention: neutering’. He’s lucky I didn’t attack his trouser chicken.”

“Indeed. And is your reply sufficient or would there be further retribution if you were to see him again?”

“I’d tell him exactly why he’s stupid. And I might bite him if he tried to touch me. But I’m done with the rest of it. He shut me out of the water closet so where was I supposed to shit? It’s his own damn fault. That monkey is so slow, he clearly fell out of the family tree a few times too many.”

“I think that’s quite enough with insulting Mr. Weasley for his callous remark and attitude. And the rest of the Weasley family is quite delightful, so you really should leave them out of your campaign. Lastly, I’m sure the damage wasn’t too bad, so long as it’s over. They can repair a great deal with the proper spells.”

“Everything but that overly orange poster.” He hacks up a little cough and out rolls a tiny paper snitch, as small as your smallest thumbnail. The snitch flutters a few times and stills again into a sodden almost unidentifiable mass. You’re really not good enough with wandwork to save it and don’t particularly want to do anything with the little wad but toss it in the rubbish bin. You suppose Mr. Weasley will simply have to find another form of décor. Or, should you ever need a peace offering, at least you know what he no longer has. Karkat stares at you again and you think that _he_ thinks he’s facing you down, but he also looks just a bit like one of Porrim’s cats delivering her a dead mouse present, _see, aren’t you proud?._

“How about dinner?”

“I’ll have what you’re having.” The _or else_ goes unspoken, but his tail lashes once, tasseled tip flicking, and he’s glaring at you preemptively.

“Of course.”

You introduce Karkat to the concept of phones, menus, and takeout that night. In between spooning out more helpings of tandoori lamb, a brief tug-of-war over the naan, and watching him lick the tamarind sauce container clean, you establish that he is very fond of spice, has the same fondness for fried food and salt as everyone else in your family, and despite his highly developed and somewhat foul vocabulary, he can’t read. An alphabetized binder of takeout menus is probably not the best place to start, but it seems to provide plenty of motivation. He’s determined that he gets to pick tomorrow’s dinner, so you go with it, and pull out a notebook to trace out the letters.

His mind is every bit as voracious as his appetite and within an hour he not only has the alphabet down, he’s sounded out three whole menus, selected enough food for the rest of the week and is questioning exactly how you paid for this evening’s dinner. Not your salary from the Ministry, mind you, or your assets in general, but your credit card. This leads to a discussion of magical and non-magical economies and the revelation every muggleborn has that gold Galleons are worth far more in sheer material on the non-magical market than they are as coinage in the magical realms. There’s also a brief pause as the two of you contemplate how truly asinine it is that witches and wizards keep their assets in an institution run by a race of magical beings that hate them.

Your own salary from the Ministry is deposited automatically every other week at Gringotts, where, soon after, you withdraw it, pay the conversion fees, and redeposit it at a non-magical institution. It’s not precisely your department, but you’ve been encouraging the Ministry’s treasury department to consider cheques.

Karkat is supremely unimpressed with money in general, but he has an absolutely _precious_ hatred of inefficiency and willful stupidity. You think that this living arrangement will go well. He has a tiny bump in his belly where a positively prodigious quantity of tandoori lamb and biryani rice is digesting. So cute. Maybe Aradia is right and you may eventually feel enough of these soft and squishy feelings to want to reproduce. Or maybe you’ll divert it like Porrim and just get cats. Cat children. _Too late, Hermione, you can’t have him back. This impressionable and voracious mind is all mine!_

Karkat sets himself on the foot of your bed that night and stares at you with those bright red eyes like he’s afraid to let you out of his sight. Sometime in the middle of the night, he migrates under the covers until you wake from dreams of suffocation to find him sprawled on your chest. You shift, gently dumping him onto his side, turn over to face him, and go back to sleep.

When your alarm goes off Tuesday morning, you hear a thump and catch a glimpse of tail tassel going over the edge of the bed. You wake up quickly enough to eliminate the possibility that he’s currently anywhere but under your bed. You don’t say anything, just start your morning routine and make doubles of everything but coffee. He wants coffee anyhow. You pour a tiny splash into a bowl, add a great deal of milk and watch him consume everything in front of him. The bump has been digested and he’s working on a new one. You’re out of leftovers, cereal, and the fruit bowl that usually lasts you a week. You’re going to need to research absolutely _everything_ on raising a sphinx. You suspect that this will still be less than you need to know.

You pull out the newspaper, all the children’s books you can find, _thank you Aradia for your darling precocious spawn who leave every room a whirlwind of chaos in their aftermath_ , and leave him a notepad and a few pencils. You wash and refill the water bowl, leave him the rest of the fruit, a box of granola bars dug out from the back of a cabinet, and are five minutes late to work for the first time in your life because you have to explain to him how to read a clock so he knows when you’ll be home. It’s a good thing that you’re in good with your boss. You suspect that your department of two will be closing early, you don’t dare leave him alone until 7:30pm tonight.

On your lunch break, the one that seldom finds you outside the Ministry, you hurry home to check on him and post a letter to your mother on your way back to the office. Doubtless someone within the family network knows something about raising sphinx children. On your way back home that evening, having left promptly at five for the first time, you pick up groceries and hope your mother gets back to you quickly. Your food budget is shaping up to be enough for three or more and Karkat’s still _tiny_. You might have to move home and commute if he doesn’t turn out to be some sort of miniature sphinx. You’re not actually opposed to living with family, but it has been rather nice to have your own space. Then again, perhaps other children might be good for Karkat. Aradia’s three are all hardy sorts. They have to be, what with their mother being a cursebreaker whose idea of suitable childcare is cousin Terezi. Terezi is a part-time barrister in Cardiff. The rest of the time she’s a dragon. Terezi lives at home with most of the rest of your family in Britain in an Unplottable section of Peak District National Park. Porrim lives on the other side of London, close enough to public transportation to reach all the amenities of a large city. Her bedsit is large enough for three cats and one Wiccan, and small enough to discourage long-term visitors.

*

Tuesday night Karkat orders dinner by phone, one claw tip extended to carefully tap out the buttons on your landline. He rattles off his order from memory, the one that should pretty much last the both of you for the rest of the week, and then rattles off your credit card number from memory as well. You have a feeling like Pandora might have looking at the bottom of an empty box. You set up the child controls on your laptop and show him the internet anyway. He doesn’t promise _not_ to use your credit card without permission, but he listens without any sarcastic remarks when you explain your budget to him, and you’re pretty sure that that’s the same thing.

The pencils and note paper went over like lead balloons, but he’s already plinking out edicts in Word. Edict One: _Thou Shalt Not Feed Me Food You Would Not Eat Yourself. Unless I Ask._ He sounds like your great-grandmother. A shiver goes down your spine and your Sight helpfully informs you that they will indeed meet and they will indeed love one another as two fierce troublesome souls do. This is both good and bad news. Your great-grandmother rather terrifies you.

You write out a figure for food for the week and another for a general spending allowance for books or films or music or whatever kitten children are into these days, and post it on the fridge to remind the both of you. You portion up the leftovers to cover lunches Wednesday through Friday, and make a mental note to go grocery shopping again anyway. You check that he can open the fridge from both outside and inside. You show him how to use the microwave and issue your own Edict: _Absolutely no metal, living creatures, or whole eggs_. He looks very considering over the last. The two of you have a stare down, which you win. If he does it anyway, you’ll foster him out for a week to Aradia and her three. You have no doubt that this will either cause him to respect your housekeeping or give him terrible ideas. One or the other.


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the work week passes without notable incident. You get the Goblin Nation contracts back, work out no less then eleven different options for a counter-counteroffer, and send it along to the minister to review. You get the PR campaign rolling with one of the beneficiaries of the St. Mungo’s wolfsbane project, simple small notices in all the major wizarding publications. The poster child is adorable. Very small, very cute, very blond, pseudonym “Lizzy”.

It’s a multiple month campaign with short excerpts from her life with a short byline for your department, but no outright reference to werewolves, just the occasional reference to a persistent disease which makes it impossible for her father to keep steady work, that makes her tired all the time. Hermione and you hope that by the time it becomes obvious that Lizzy and her father are survivors of a werewolf attack, all the people who have been following her story will already be sympathizing with her. If nothing else, they might be motivated by guilt to donate to the St. Mungo’s fund.

Karkat has worked his way through three bowls of fruit and perhaps an eighth of your personal library, at least what you keep in your apartment, there’s a few tomes in the family library that you don’t like to keep so unsecured, and you’ve locked up a few volumes you feel inappropriate for his apparent age.

You’re more than a little proud that he reads faster than you do, though you’re not sure how much he understands, and you can only discuss so much of it when you’re home. You show him the online card catalog, make a side trip to the library Friday night for what turns out to be an enormous stack of manga, ( _bless librarians, they don’t judge_ ), and plan on a quiet weekend finding him a better keyboard and a headset that fits so at least he can have some online interaction when you’re busy.

Instead you unlock your door to find your cousin Cronus on your couch with his feet drawn up, shoes still on, the barbarian, and Karkat sitting on the couch arm, glaring at him. Cronus had sets of scratches on his hands and there’s blood on his arms. Karkat’s ears are laid back and his mane is puffed like he’s trying to take up twice as much space. His tail is lashing. He’s so offended he’s spitting when he addresses you.

“Kankri. You failed to rat-proof your domain, but I have seen fit to assist you, you helpless primate. I have trapped you a large specimen of _wizardouchous ridiculous_ and expect fair compensation as he looks less than appetizing. This requires sushi as, according to the internet, it is delicious, and I don’t _want_ to “ _haz a cheezburger_ ”.” This is punctuated by more tail flicking.

You set the stack of manga on the kitchen table.

“Ah, Karkat, this is Cronus, my cousin, and not a burglar. He has a key, though he really should call ahead. Cronus, my roommate, Karkat.”

Cronus starts to relax and puts his feet back on the floor when Karkat turns to you and Karkat growls. Cronus does the worst possible thing he could and laughs. Karkat lunges and bites him on the thigh. Cronus yelps and manages to clear the arm of the couch from a sitting start. Fairly impressive. He lands on his behind and scrabbles to right himself. Less impressive, but rather hilarious, as badly as it reflects on you to think it.

Cronus is more handsome than any mortal being should be, a token of his own mixed heritage with bits of selkie, Indian mer, Veela, lamia, and a few other things, all somehow optimized in his features and physique, and it’s gotten him out of more scrapes, and into more beds, then anyone really ought to be allowed. Karkat is the first person you’ve met besides Hermione that doesn’t seem taken with, or at least jealous of, how handsome he is. Even Hermione sighed a bit once he left. You’re proud that Karkat hasn’t been taken in.

For someone like yourself, whose only evidence of other than human heritage is your troublesome eyes and the ability to hold your breath naturally for over six minutes, this is somewhat vindicating, if embarrassing to admit. When phenotypes were handed out, you got the normal number of functioning organs, limbs, and facial features, skin a bit too dark to be strictly a tan, hair utterly untamable, and a body type that is known in polite circles as stocky or big-boned. You also have a five o’clock shadow that tends to grow in faster than you can keep it tamed, even with careful application of your more finessed magics, much to your frustration, Hermione’s amusement, the youngest Mr. Weasley’s unconcealed envy, (having been as yet unable to cultivate a beard), and Karkat’s confusion at the whole thing.

Cronus’s violet eyes alternatively peer and leer out at the world from behind long dark lashes, eyebrows and cheekbones and chin all elegant and just masculine enough to avoid androgynous and all the social baggage therein. His skin tone somehow hits a more tantalizing exotic, assisted by those eyes and a swipe of eyeliner. His mode of dress is generally punk. His sexual orientation is anyone willing and legal, though you’re _mostly_ sure it doesn’t include family and he’s just joking when he attempts to flirt with you. (Or Porrim. Or Aradia. Or Terezi. Or Hestia. Or your mother. Or your father. Or your _great-grandmother_...) Cronus’s career is somewhere between traveling musician and perpetual layabout. It would be unkind to categorize him as a career manwhore. One, stigmatizing sex workers in lieu of their employers contributes to the problem. Two, if Cronus was getting paid, at least he wouldn’t be perpetually hitting everyone up for money. This is not the first time he’s couchsurfed his way back to you. He stands up and covers the bite with a hand. There’s clearly a bloodstain developing on his jeans. You feel a little bad about that.

Karkat makes the jump from the couch to your arms assisted by frantic flapping and you catch him just in time. He climbs up onto your shoulder and you steady him as he settles upright, clearly, at least to you, attempting to keep his head above Cronus’s. You really should buy a scale, with the amount of food he’s putting away, he’s probably doing a lot of growing right now.

“He smells funny. And tastes like fish.”

“I think that that’s quite enough biting. You don’t know where he’s been.” You’re trying not to smile. Cronus really should learn to call or owl ahead. What if you had been entertaining company? You never are, but it would have been _polite_.

“A point,” Karkat concedes, and settles more comfortably on your shoulders. Cronus is pouting at you, theatrically, chin tucked and eyes wide, but he doesn’t speak up in his own defense. Despite his continued somewhat self-destructive habits, he _has_ grown up quite a bit in the last few years. Maybe not enough to get a job, or fall in with the contributing citizen of the EU bit, but familial relations have seen an uptick in positive interactions entirely unrelated to loaning money or posting bail. You raise a brow at Cronus and ignore him in favour of efforts more likely to see future positive returns.

“And, Karkat, dear one, it is easier to get things out of other people when they _like_ you. They tend not to like you if you’ve offered them violence.” You scratch behind his ears.

“He put shoes on your couch. You don’t like that. Someone had to dominate him into compliance.”

“Sometimes one must provide a good example.”

“I’m naked. Is that positive enough?” This is a grumble as he sticks his face into your neck. You feel a tiny wet flick as a rough tongue scraps just once on your neck. You don’t think he even notices. You still haven’t had a weekend with him, so you don’t know how much of the day he spends napping as opposed to reading books, absorbing memes, or demolishing groceries, but he sounds like he’s falling asleep. He instantly feels twice as heavy.

“Ooh, _Kanny_ , is this a clothin’ optional sort a household now? Shall I toe the line, _sir_?” Cronus slides his thumbs down the waistband of his jeans and leans back just a bit to showcase the revealed “v” as his tight shirt rides up. Karkat fails to react, and you think you hear a tiny snore. _Thank you, Cronus, for trying to instigate further chaos._

“I think that you should take yourself to the loo and clean up, _Mr. Ampora_. And then you can help order sushi for three and explain why you’re here this time.”

“You’re paying, right?”

“When have you ever been anything but broke?” He looks like he’s trying to remember. You roll your eyes.

“Just go clean up.”

*

The bill comes to over £50 and the two of them inhale at least half of your share, no hope of leftovers. Karkat sprawls across your lap afterwards, sleeping the sleep of overstuffed righteous winged cat toddlers everywhere. You absentmindedly stroke his fuzzy belly as if maybe that will prevent him from a tummy ache, not that he’s evidenced any weakness of the sort previously.

Cronus has evidently redeemed himself with his sushi knowledge and been pumped for any other expertise, so now Karkat has been indoctrinated in the proper etiquette of hitchhiking, a demonstration of how to tune a guitar and theoretical knowledge pertaining to changing motor oil, but not, due to your swift preemptive kick, “how to pick up birds”. _Thank you, Cronus, for attempting to be a bad influence at every opportunity_. On the positive tally of the evening, Karkat seems to have grudgingly accepted Cronus, and Cronus seems quite fond of him now that he’s not the target of potential evisceration. To his credit, Cronus seldom holds a grudge. Now if only Cronus could hold a _job_.

You make up the couch with sheets and your spare pillow, flick the nightlight on in the bathroom, not that anyone here needs it, but you are a good host, however shanghaied, and you do your best to sleep in.

You wake up Saturday morning to the smell of beans, mushrooms, tomatoes, sausage, and eggs, and you stumble your way into the kitchen area just in time to jump when the toast pops up. Cronus has one sole culinary talent, which keeps him in the good graces of innumerable one night stands. He makes a stellar fry-up.

You stumble your way to the loo, get yourself in order for the day, and return to a full plate. You dump your sausages back onto the central platter, fork yourself another tomato and fill your face. You can get up every workday of the week with no trouble, but as soon as you sleep in, your body revolts at the thought of waking up. Cronus puts a mug of coffee down, at which point you inhale gratefully and try to drown yourself in it. You don’t look up until you finish. Karkat is sitting on the table, plate half cleared, and staring at you with grudging awe. You have been less then polite.

“Kankri, I’ve changed my mind. He can cook. We can keep him.” You choke off a laugh at this pronouncement, after which Karkat shoves his face back into his plate and imitates your stance of a moment ago. Five days and the world is now divided into “us” and “them” with the two of you under “us” in his mind. He’s adorable.

Cronus smiles at you.

“How about it, Chief?” Eyebrow wiggle.

“Contrary to insinuations from both of you, I can cook. And Karkat, don’t get too excited, this is the extent of Cronus’s talents in the kitchen.” Karkat looks conflicted, then his face clears.

“We can find new things to fry.”

“Sure, Chief, plenty of things to fry.” He wiggles his eyebrows again and you wonder for the umpteenth time why _anyone_ would sleep with Cronus.


	5. Chapter 5

Cronus leaves late Sunday morning after a hilarious little dance when he realized that he didn’t know where the letter he brought had gone. It was from your mutual great-grandmother and no one with any survival instinct would do anything to offend her, so even Cronus looks panicked when he realizes it’s missing. Karkat watches the commotion and washes his flanks and laughs until he deigns to point out that Cronus hasn’t checked under the couch. Two minutes later you have your letter, Cronus is covered in dust bunnies and Karkat is washing his other side and pretending he had nothing to do with stashing the letter in the first place. Cronus takes himself elsewhere. You open the letter.

_Dearest Kankri,_

_It Has Come To Our Attention, Dearest Child, That You Have Made Arrangements To Provide For Our Newest Grandchild. It Would Be Pleasing To See You Both, And So We Have Made Arrangements To Receive You Sunday At Noon At Our Country Home._

_Yours In Loving Fondness,_

_Nana_

Noon on Sunday. For tea with _The Dragon_ , as Great-Grandmama is known within your family, for good reason. That leaves you less than an hour both to get ready and to get almost halfway across England. You’re going to have to apparate. With Karkat.

Oh dear.

You fan yourself with the letter and panic for a moment while Karkat laughs. This lasts until you plunk him in the tub and start running the water. He backs up as much as he can, back hunched and fur raised, trapped between the walls, the door, and you. You glare at him. It’s not his fault but he is currently _standing on your very last bit of patience_.

“We are visiting my great-grandmother, likely soon to be _your_ great-grandmother as well. She is terrifying and also very helpful. You will be clean enough to pass inspection or _you will regret it_.” You make sure to be extra clear when you enunciate and he looks a little scared, quickly covered in bravado.

“What are you going to do if I’m _not_?”

“ _I_ will also be regretting it.” The water’s warm enough that you think it’s ready.

“Keep your eyes closed and your ears down and scoot forward under the spray.”

He stares at you for a moment and then he actually does what you ask. You should be kinder. You’re still a stranger to him in many ways.

Five minutes later he’s rolling on a pile of clean towels while you take a quick shower of your own. You get out and wave a quick gentle drying spell at him on your way to your wardrobe, it doesn’t work for you when you’re sopping, but it works just fine for toweled hair. You brush the both of you off, pack a book in case he’s sent off to play with the other grands while you’re interrogated, pick him up, close your eyes, _pray_ , and apparate.

*

You don’t splinch yourself. Karkat likewise arrives in one piece. Nana is in a good mood. You somehow find yourself agreeing to move back home so Karkat can get _A Proper Education Until Such A Time As The Youngest Mr. Vantas Is Able To Cast His Own Glamour Or Transformation_. It’s a great relief to know that he appears to be developmentally just fine, perhaps even above average.

*

You’re going to have to apparate to work _every day_.

Bollocks.


End file.
